


cross the border.

by scoundrelhan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10604034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoundrelhan/pseuds/scoundrelhan
Summary: You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. And you play along because it’s funny, it’s written down, you’ve memorized it, it’s all you know.- Planet of Love, Richard SikenReservoir Dogs AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is a movie AU, I don't claim to, nor do I wish to own Reservoir Dogs by Quentin Tarantino. Slight spoilers for the end of the movie at the beginning, but the rest has little to no relation to the original plot.

"You're gonna be just fine, Rogers. Look, hey, it ain't that bad. You seein' what I'm seein', huh? It ain't that bad. You're fine. Say it. Hey! You with me, Rogers? What are you?"  
  
Steve wheezed, eyes glazed with tears from the pain, "I'm... Real scared. I’m scared, Buck."  
  
"No, you're fine. Say it."   
  
He was losing so much blood. It was everywhere, like jam smeared across the dusty warehouse floor, more and more pumping from the hole in his soaked shirt. Bucky didn’t know what to do, besides make Steve believe he was alright. He wasn’t. He fucking wasn’t. If Morita didn’t show up within the next hour, he was going to be dead, and Bucky - well, Bucky knew he was going to be more out of his mind than he'd ever been. More insane than when he decided to take on this suicide job in the first place.

“I’m fi- ” Steve tried to repeat. Blood bubbled up, smothering the words.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything, Stevie. Gonna be fine. I know that, and you know that.”

Steve spit, spraying red all over, and Bucky wiped at the sides of his lips. His thumb caught on the side, dragged across a patch of stubble, and he left it there. Bucky’s eyes stung. He couldn’t cry; he needed to be strong for both of their sakes, but how could he when not two days ago those lips were cherry red from kissing in the front seat of the getaway car instead of a bullet to the gut?

“Buck, I’m sorry. S’all my fault. I’m so… So sorry,” Steve rambled, coughed up more red. If Bucky lived to see another day, he never wanted to see that fucking color ever again.

Steve’s words were so slurred it was a miracle Bucky could understand him. Steve’s hands flailed, searching for something to hold onto, so Bucky heaved him further onto his lap. Steve was like a child in his arms, a newborn baby covered in the blood from his mother’s efforts. It reminded him of that statue of Mary holding Jesus after they lowered him from the cross. He couldn’t think of the name, but it didn’t matter. Even now, with the light streaming through the boarded-up windows above them, even at the edge of death, Steve was glowing.

“Shut up. You listening to me? It’s not your fault.”

“It is. Buck, it’s all my fault,” Steve cried, seizing in pain in Bucky’s arms as he tried to sit up.

“You’re hurt real bad, Stevie. You’re not thinking straight, okay? It’s not your fault. Just relax,” Bucky hushed him, fingers shaking as he carded them through Steve’s matted, blonde hair.

“It is, Buck! It is. I’m a cop, Buck. A fuckin’ rat!”

The world kept spinning, and time kept slipping by, but his body didn’t follow. Bucky knew he should be angry. He was, distantly. It was stifled by the welling in his chest, a feeling that cut straight through him like someone had shot him, too. Bucky was in love with him. Cop or not, thief or straight-laced, Bucky loved Steve Rogers, even if it was going to kill him. Even if they were both going to die in this dirty, forgotten morgue because Bucky was too damn blinded by Steve to see the signs. He knew, somehow, going into this that they weren’t going to make it out unschathed.

“Doesn’t fucking matter, Steve. It doesn’t matter a bit to me. ‘Course you’re a cop. Makes perfect fuckin’ sense. You’re the best guy I know,” Bucky told him, pressed his lips to Steve’s sweaty temple.

“How can you say that? How can you… I almost got us killed. Gonna get you fuckin' killed, Buck!” Steve wailed, face screwed up in pure agony from the bullet, or his admission. Bucky couldn’t tell.

“You’re alive, and I’m alive. That’s all I care about, alright? When Morita gets back, he’s gonna get you the help you need, and we’re gonna go to Mexico. Remember what I told you? Got a nice place on the coast that a buddy of mine used to own. We’ll be right on the water. I know you said you wanted to see the ocean. Just wait for Morita, okay? All we gotta do is wait for him.”

“Don’t hate me, please,” Steve whimpered, nails digging hard enough into Bucky’s shoulder to leave marks through his suit. Tears were mixing with the blood on Steve’s pale cheeks. Bucky couldn’t wipe them away fast enough, ended up smearing them all over his face like some kind of fucked up finger paint. The red kept spreading like a goddamn virus.

“Hey, hey, hey. I don’t hate you, Stevie. Why do you think I’m doin’ all this, huh? Lettin’ you ruin my new suit like this. Think I’d let you get away with that if I hated you?”

Steve laughed, but it came out like a gurgle. He dropped his head onto Bucky’s chest, eyes fluttering and drooping, and there was a loose smile on his face. Bucky laughed, too, but his was more like a sob, short and wretched, clogging his throat like a wad of cotton.

“Mexico. Wanna see it, Buck. Miss the sun,” Steve whispered, lips slack and saliva shining bright pink on his chin like lip gloss.

The warehouse door banged open, and Bucky drew his pistol, unlocked the safety and aimed. He didn’t want to take his eyes off Steve, but he did, had to. Morita was barreling towards them with a black briefcase in one hand, and a pistol in the other. Bucky dropped the gun, arms going limp with relief, and met Steve’s half-lidded eyes again. He was fading in and out, but his pulse was as steady as Bucky could hope for at this stage.

“What the fuck happened back there, huh? What the fuck was that?” Morita shouted, spit flying and cheeks splotchy and red as the puddle of blood that was growing around Bucky and Steve. He skidded to a halt a few feet in front of them.

“Shit. What the hell happened to him?”

“Doesn’t fucking matter. We need to call Phillips, so he can get him the fuck outta here right now, or he’s going to die,” Bucky said, voice shaking just as bad as his hands.

“Jesus Christ, Barnes, do you know how bad this is? How fucking bad? Phillips ain’t gonna do jackshit for us after that clusterfuck! Dead cops and civilians… Fucking insane, man. No, we’re gonna have to move him ourselves,” Morita replied, fiddling with the safety on his gun. “Who else is left, now that I’m thinkin’ of it?”

“Falsworth is dead. Got it right in the head. Dernier and Jones, I got no fuckin’ idea. And Dugan? That son of a bitch better have booked it to Pluto, or I’ll kill him myself.”

“Dernier’s gone, too. Poor asshole got torn apart after the cops started shooting. Jones got hit, but not as bad. Pretty sure the cops got him. And I got nothin’ on Dugan. Oh fuck, is he dead?”

Bucky jolted, heart and stomach dropping straight out of his gut. Steve’s eyes were shut, but his hot, quick breath washed over the back of Bucky’s palm after an eternity.

“No. Christ, no, just passed out. But I’ll fucking repeat myself: he will be if we don’t get him out of here within the hour.”

“Well, the plan’s well and truly fucked, so I guess it don’t make much sense for us to sit here like ducks with thumbs up our asses anymore,” Morita muttered, pacing back and forth.

“What’s in the bag?” Bucky asked.

“The ice.”

For a moment, he smiled a real genuine smile. After everything, they made out with the goods. They were rich men. He still wasn’t sure if it was worth it, but he let himself feel the joy that came from finishing a job.

“Morita, you’re a saint. You’re the light of my goddamn life,” Bucky said, hysterical from the adrenaline running through his veins. “I could kiss you.”

“Yeah, yeah, pal, we’re not out of the fuckin’ woods yet. I know someone who can take care of the Rogers situation, but the ice is another story.”

Bucky knew it was going to be a hassle with the diamonds. Phillips’ contacts would know if they tried to sell in the area like they planned, which meant going out of his reach, which was a pretty goddamn big one. Bucky had once admired the man’s empire - it was part of the reason he’d stayed in Los Angeles for so long - but now it was biting them in the ass. Splitting the stash and running seemed like the best option at this point.

“Alright, so we take half. You give me the address to this friend of yours, and we go our separate ways. How does that sound?”

“Sounds fuckin’ fantastic. I’ll write it down for you. Carter’s a hell of a woman, and a hell of a doctor. She’ll fix him up, I can promise you that,” Morita said, and pulled out a crumpled napkin from his pocket and a pen from inside his suit coat. Bucky watched him walk over to the wall, flatten it out, and scribble down the information in his looping, wild handwriting.

Morita handed it to him, and Bucky stuffed it in his waistband, pockets too stiff with blood and dirt to use. They each looped an arm around Steve’s waist, careful not to disturb the bullet wound in his stomach too much. Steve made a small noise, a hiss of breath, but stayed unconscious as they dragged him towards the door. The afternoon was hot, oppressively so. Bucky felt like he was drowning with each breath, lungs filling with humidity and the steam from the pavement. The car door was giving him second degree burns as he waited for Morita to fumble with the locks. Everything was overwhelming, grating on his already fried nerves, and Steve was an impossibly heavy weight on his side. In the light of day, he was even more of a mess than Bucky thought.  _ And he’s a fucking cop _ , Bucky thought, let himself be a little angry now that they had direction, a light at the end of this neverending tunnel. How could he have fucking forgotten that? It would be pure, impossible luck for them to make it out of the city without a chase. There was probably an entire posse waiting around the corner to arrest them all.

“Hey,” Bucky said, laying a hand on Morita’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Your cut’s in the glovebox, by the way.”

“Good luck, pal,” Bucky told him, meaning every word. Morita just nodded. His eyes were tired, bloodshot, and there were red spots on his cuffs from carrying Steve.

“I’m not the one who needs it.”

If that ain’t the fucking truth.  _ Blessed Barnes, _ Bucky thought as he watched Morita weave himself into the usual city traffic. He hoped he could live up to the nickname one last time.

 

\---

 

“So, what's the deal with the newbie?” Falsworth asks when he comes back with another round.

“Used to be a pot dealer, according to Stark,” Phillips replies, popping the cap off his bottle.

Bucky laughs into his glass. A fuckin’ stoner. That's the last thing they need: some lowlife, head-in-the-clouds druggie. Dugan kicks him under the table, dark eyes flashing a warning, and Bucky rolls his eyes right back.

“You got a problem, junior?” Phillips snaps, and Bucky sighs, wipes leftover condensation on his pant leg. He kind of hates this bar, if he’s being honest. It’s so damn dark he can barely see his hand in front of his face sober, and every surface he touches is sticky, or wet.

“That’s a bit of a risk, boss. I mean, I know about ten other guys who’d be better for this kind of job than some hippie pot smoker.”

Phillips stares him down over the rim of his beer.

“Yeah, boss, he’s got a point. Weren't you involved with - ah, shit, what's her name, Barnes? That pretty little Russian thing. Red hair. Almost broke both my arms. She was a hell of a good thief,” Jones pipes up from the corner.

“Nah, she moved on. I've got no idea where she is now,” Bucky answers. He hadn't thought about Natasha in a long time, not since Georgia and the whole undercover cop mess. Saying she’s good is an understatement. She’s an artist, a master, but a loose canon.

“If you assholes are done questioning my judgement, let’s get back to business,” Phillips grunts, so Bucky drops it. He leans back in his chair, wooden legs creaking, and relaxes. Phillips starts talking logistics, something Bucky’s already went over about twenty times this week.

“Is that him?” Dugan interrupts, and the whole table falls silent. Bucky cranes his neck, scanning the crowd. There are the same drunks from before at the bar top, some prostitutes hanging out by the far exit. No one new as far as he can tell.

“Who the fuck am I supposed to be lookin’ at?” He asks, a little whiny but that's probably because he’s a little drunk. Bucky always gets bitchy after too much hard liquor. Morita likes to tease the hell out of him for it.

“Shut the fuck up. Here he comes,” Phillips hisses, and then Bucky sees him.

He takes back all the hippie stoner bullshit.

The guy’s built like a brick shithouse. A thin white t-shirt is stretched across a defined chest, and the leather jacket across his shoulders is doing wonders for his form. Everything’s tight, and fitting. The guy’s blonde hair is falling in his face, a stark contrast in the grimy, smokey darkness. He’s the very incarnation of every fantasy Bucky’s ever had, and there are a lot to live up to.

“Dugan,” the new guy nods, white teeth flashing as he gives a small smile to the table. Bucky can tell he’s staring, but he can't bring himself to give a shit.

“Rogers, this is Jones. Falsworth. You already know Dugan. And the asshole in front of you is Barnes,” Phillips introduces them, and Rogers shakes everybody’s hand. When he gets to Bucky, his smile widens a bit, and his grip is soft compared to his appearance.

“I know who you are,” Rogers says, blue eyes wide and excited, and Bucky feels like he might tip over.

“Yeah? Who’s that?” Bucky manages, going for smooth and probably missing by five miles as he leans his elbow on the table, chin in hand.

“You’re - what was it again? Oh, yeah! Blessed Barnes! I remember watching the Kansas heists on the news.”

“I like you already, man. Hear that, jerkoffs? I'm famous!” Bucky shouts, throwing an arm around Rogers and one around Dugan, pretending not to enjoy the way Rogers is tucked into his side, all muscle and body heat before Phillips tells them all to shut the fuck up and listen.

 

\---

 

Too much luck was Bucky’s problem. It was only a matter of time until it ran out. A group of guys out in Kansas, some hicks who specialized in robbing banks, used to call him Blessed Barnes. _God’s on your side, Yankee! Swear I saw that guardian angel of yours takin’ the bullets for ya!_ _Luckiest son of a bitch this side of the Mississippi!_ Bucky wasn’t much for prayer then, but he did now with one hand slipping through Steve’s blood-slick palm, and the other leaving permanent prints in the steering wheel.

_ Holy Father, who art in Heaven, I know I’m a sinner, and I don’t deserve Your mercy, but I’m begging You to save him. I’m begging for a miracle. You take me if You have to take anyone, but I’m begging You to spare him. Holy Father, they said You were on my side, and I’m praying they’re still right. _

No cops followed them, but Bucky was still antsy. Steve’s limp body flopping around like a doll with every turn was making him sick, made him want to do something stupid like drive them off the road, or yell in Steve’s face until he woke up, until Bucky could see those pretty blue eyes again. He only knew Steve wasn’t dead because his right hand was wrapped around Steve’s wrist like a handcuff, tight enough to feel the beat of his blood against his veins. Didn’t make the fact that he was still bleeding like a stuck pig all over the leather seats any better.

Skyscrapers turned to apartments turned to condos and white picket fences after twenty minutes. He double, triple checked the directions. He merged onto the highway. He merged off. Made five rights and four lefts. Bucky felt himself going into autopilot with every passing mile until he recognized the house number, golden numbers flashing in the harsh light of the headlights. He slammed on the brakes, the squeal echoing in the quiet street. It was a quaint enough place, an unassuming, classic two story with a wraparound porch. Roses and ferns lined the walkway up to the front door. Peaceful was the word for the house outside the foggy window.

“Steve, hey. Time to wake up, sweetheart,” he said, leaning over so his words were right in Steve’s ear.

Steve’s brow furrowed, but it was clear he’d lost too much blood to be fully conscious anymore. Bucky willed himself out of the car and into the muggy night. Light pollution from the city smothered the stars that he knew were up there somewhere in the darkness. He walked around the hood, and nearly had a heart attack when the sound of a door opening pierced the silence.

“Who are you?” An accented voice demanded, and Bucky looked up to see a woman with a shotgun standing on the front stoop of the house. Dr. Carter, he assumed, was watching him with a look that said she knew how to use the gun in her hands, and wasn't afraid to use it.

“Whoa, whoa! Let’s just calm down. Morita - Jim Morita sent me. Said you could help a… a friend of mine,” Bucky explained, hands in the air where she could see that he was unarmed. “He’s, uh, he’s hurt pretty fucking bad, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital.”

“How hurt? What happened?” Dr. Carter asked. She didn’t lower the gun.

“Bullet to the gut. He’s bleeding everywhere. Please, ma’am.”

Dr. Carter stalked down the front steps, flip flops slapping the concrete. She was gorgeous up close, all loose curls and pink cheeks like a classic movie star. If Bucky didn't swing the other way, he’d be head over heels already. She shoved the shotgun into his arms, sending him a few steps back, before she yanked open the passenger door. Steve slumped halfway out, the seatbelt keeping him from face planting onto the curb. Blood fell like rain drops down the side of the seat and into the storm drain. Dr. Carter brought a hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and then nodded to herself.

“Oh, Christ,” she murmured, manicured nails sparkling in the light flooding from her porch. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't, but it's Bucky, ma’am.”

“Call me Peggy. Now, Bucky, I need you to help me get your friend into the house before my neighbors call the police on us.”

Bucky wanted to say that actually wouldn't be the worst thing, considering, but he kept his mouth shut and helped lug Steve’s limp body for the third time today through Dr. Carter -  _ Peggy’s _ foyer.

 

\---

 

Bucky's childhood hadn't been sunshine and rainbows. He'd learned how to smooth talk his way into anywhere, and steal fruit from the corner store down the street without the old Romanian couple who owned it catching him all before he hit double digits. His pop had died before he could walk. Worthless piece of shit walked into oncoming traffic, drunk as a fucking skunk, and got flattened by a semi. His ma hadn't fared much better. Got hit with pneumonia the winter before Bucky turned 16 and couldn't afford to see the doctor. It took her in her sleep, which people had told him was some sort of kindness. The woman had been drowning in her own body fluids till her last breath. Bucky still doesn't think there's anything kind about that.

Rogers paints him a similar picture. He tries to be calm while he explains the small, one bedroom shithole him and his ma occupied up until she caught TB and died when Rogers was 18, but his lips are quivering around the unlit cigarette pinched between his front teeth. Rogers tells him he tried to enlist, but his asthma and history of other illnesses held him back, which he sees as some sort of curse. Bucky can't believe this kid. The Nam isn't a place anyone should wish going to, but here Rogers is, lamenting about how he couldn't fight for his country, spouting the same patriotic shit Bucky heard on TV not too long ago.

“Life ain't fair,” Bucky consoles, pats Rogers’ knee a few times. “‘Specially for people like us, but, hey? Look where we are now.”

“Criminals with two bucks to our names, sitting in a drugstore parking lot?”

“Fuck you, Rogers. We’re about to be living the high life! Not everybody gets opportunities like this.”

Rogers picks up Bucky’s Zippo that had been sitting in the cup holder, and lights his cigarette. Bucky watches, mesmerized like Rogers is a goddamn snake charmer or some shit, as he sucks in the smoke, holds it in, and blows it out through his nose. He’s a vision with the sunset setting firing to his hay-colored hair, and the smoke, hazy and thick, gives his profile all the qualities of a dream.

“Never was much for smoking,” Rogers says, tapping ash out the open window, and offers Bucky the lighter.

Bucky snorts, and lights his own, anything to distract his restless hands. It's getting harder to stay away from this witty jackass who’s too pretty for his own good. Bucky wants to rough him up a little, kiss that amused smile off his plush lips, get him flustered and shaking the way Bucky feels being this close to him. Close, but not close enough. Nothing’s enough when it comes to Rogers. He tosses his arm across the back of the seats, lets his hand rest close to the nape of Rogers’ neck where a few strands of hair are curling with sweat.

“Thought you were a hardcore stoner back in the day?”

“I… Yeah, I was. Yeah,” Rogers says, and suddenly, he’s fidgety, knee jostling against the passenger door. “Never did anything for me, though.”

“Smoked my first cigarette when I was 11,” Bucky admits, blowing smoke rings into the side of Rogers’ face which earns an elbow to the ribs.

“Rebel,” Rogers teases, and Bucky has to dig his nails into his palm to keep him from grabbing and kissing him right then and there. He flicks ash at him instead.

“That’s me. I should take you home,” Bucky says, casual.

“You should,” Rogers replies, casual.

He looks at Rogers out of the corner of his eye. This is stupid, and dangerous, and nine kinds of crazy. Just like him. He’s losing his willpower, and the lazy tilt of Rogers’s mouth that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing to Bucky isn't helping. Kissing a guy in the front seat of a getaway car isn't anything new. Screwing him at his apartment is. Phillips told them not to reveal anything to each other, told them it would only get them killed, or worse, in jail, and yet Bucky’s spilling his guts like never before all because of a handsome face and spitfire attitude.

“How about a beer instead?” Bucky asks, all desperate and hopeful like some blushing schoolgirl.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Rogers drawls, tossing his cigarette out the window and kicking his feet up on the dash with a winning smile that lights a fire in Bucky’s chest.

Stupid. Dangerous. Nine kinds of fucking crazy. Just his type.

_ This kid’s gonna be the death of me _ , Bucky thinks, hiding his grin behind one hand and hits the gas.

 

\---

 

Peggy offered him the couch for the night, since Steve was occupying her only guest room. He thanked her for it, and thanked her for the coffee, but he knew he wouldn’t be leaving the second floor for however long this would take. Bucky dragged a dusty antique armchair from the corner to the side of the bed, and sat down. The egg shell curtains had stained Steve’s skin pale blue. It was impossible to tell he was alive, unless Bucky was right up against him, watching with unblinking eyes for the subtle rise of his chest. 

While he was busy watching Steve, Peggy brought in all sorts of tools Bucky didn’t recognize beyond needles and tweezers. In a matter of minutes, the guest room had been turned into a makeshift hospital. She switched on the light, but even in the harsh glow, Steve was too pale. His cheeks had the quality of fresh fallen snow. Not a drop of color. Bucky took back his past statement. He would have given up wealth, happiness, anything at all to see red in those cheeks again.

Peggy walked him through every move she made, which was a comfort Bucky didn’t know he needed. She talked through the dosage of anesthetic; how she could tell where Steve’s veins were; how even though he was unconscious, this would make it better. She explained why it was important to keep her tools sterile, and how she needed to cut his shirt to get a better look at the wound. The scissors struggled with the stained cotton that had turned into cement, but they got the job done. Steve’s chest looked like a goddamn warzone.

“I can’t promise anything, except this: it’s not going to be nice to watch,” she warned, and wasn’t that the funniest thing he’d heard all week?

Peggy was right. Bucky began to understand that this was a common occurrence with her. Watching her pry apart Steve’s skin, stick metal into his already ravaged body and dig around like this was the goddamn board game Operation made Bucky want to throw up. He tasted a bitterness in his throat, but he couldn’t stop looking. He had to see it through. He had to know Steve would be okay.

Finally, she ripped the tweezers out from beneath his skin, and dropped something into a glass. It sounded heavy, clinked like wind chimes. Peggy peeled off her gloves, and dropped them onto the nightstand. She handed Bucky the glass without a word. A bullet rested at the bottom. Leftover blood mingled with some water droplets. That was all it took to do this: one lousy bullet.

“I can’t tell exactly how much blood he’s lost, but it’s safe to say we’re in deep waters. He needs a transfusion,” Peggy said. There was a question in her eyes he already knew the answer to.

Bucky nodded. His eyes were still on the bullet.

“I’m O negative.”

He traded the cup for Steve’s hand. She didn’t say a word about it.

The whole process was very simple, Peggy told him. She checked Bucky’s vitals, asked him if he had any diseases. The prick of the needle felt like nothing at all. He closed his eyes after a while, and let her voice pacify his nerves.

“All I need you to do is relax, and try your best not to move. I’ll be monitoring you the entire time.”

He’d done this once before in the field, except he hadn’t been in a clean, suburban house in the San Francisco suburbs with clean tools and a clean, trained professional. It wouldn’t have saved the poor guy, anyway, if they’d known what they were doing. Three bullets did that to a person’s fate. Steve was barely hanging on after one. Bucky knew that he would tire too soon, and Steve didn’t have the luxury of time, but Peggy wouldn’t let him run himself into the ground. He couldn’t just leave her with two fugitive bodies like that. She deserved a good, no trouble life. Except she was a friend of Morita, and had let two strangers who had obviously been in a gunfight into her home without much protest, so he supposed her life was full of trouble.

His thoughts drifted to the tube he knew was stretched between him and Steve right now. An honest-to-god lifeline. Who knew his blood was worth something? Blood hadn’t ever meant a damn thing to him. His kin had abandoned and died on him, and every alliance he’d crafted over the years was as flimsy as one-ply toilet paper. He’d spilled enough to replace every ocean. Now, he was offering his up like gold to the ferryman.

_ Take us back to the other side. Take us far away from those barren shores, and back to the land of the breathing, the land where the tortured can still see the sky. I want him to see the sky again. _

Bucky could see the shores. Black, and empty, save for the translucent souls of the lost, the damned. That’s where he would be when it was his time, but a soul like Steve’s wasn’t meant for that kind of fate. The only thing Bucky had taken away from his first and final month of high school was the period of history about the Greeks, and their gods. There was no Heaven and Hell, the way his Ma had imagined. Everyone went to the same place, but they were separated, their eternal homes determined by their deeds in life. Bucky knew he would end up like Sisyphus, or Tantalus, while Steve deserved golden peace. Elysium. That was the name. Yes, that was where he deserved to rest when it was his time. Right now, it wasn’t. Bucky needed the ferryman to understand that.

Someone was saying something to him, but they were very far away, like a voice on the other shore tethering him to the world above. Bucky opened his eyes before the ferryman could accept his payment.

“Hmm?” He hummed.

“I was saying I think that’s enough for now. Come on. Up you go.”

Bucky was fading again. When Peggy heaved him to his feet, his head spun, the pounding of his blood like the roar of ocean waves. Like the waves in Mexico. He could tell he was speaking, but his ears were plugged up. Everything was too fuzzy to comprehend.

“You need to rest. You’re no good to me or him like this.”

She led him down the hall to another room. It was bigger, and more inviting. The smell of lavender permeated the air, the same smell that lingered around Peggy. She dropped him on top of the mattress, and oh, he could stay here forever, let himself be consumed by warmth and silk sheets. His shoes were tugged off, and a warm hand rested against the back of his head.

“I’ll wake you when I need you. Sleep well, Bucky.”

For the second time in a lifetime, he did.

 

\---

 

The ceiling fan doesn’t work, and the California night is too hot for this kind of closeness, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a shit about anything, except this bed. The job is in a few days, and Bucky has never been more confident of success in his life. They’re a well-oiled machine, and Steve - they’d shared names last night when he’d pressed Steve up against the wall - fits so well into the group, it’s like they’ve been partners since birth.

“When this is done, I’m gonna take you to Mexico,” Bucky whispers into the cove between Steve’s jaw and his throat.

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean,” Steve says. The words rumble against Bucky’s lips, and he smiles, stretches himself out so he can feel the full length of Steve’s body beneath him. Steve’s running his hand up and down the skin of Bucky’s back. Up and down. He stops at the bottom of Bucky’s spine, and his breath evens out.

_ We’re gonna be alright _ , he thinks to himself before closing his eyes.

 

\---

 

Pain was a childhood friend. Pain had held his hand, and threw him into the dirt patch outside his mother’s apartment. Pain stroked the hair from his face, and pressed bruises into his eyes. Pain was the closest thing to a constant in his life.

When Bucky woke up, the pain that greeted him was a stranger.

He tried to lift his head, but every tendon, every bone, every cell in his body screamed in protest. His vision blurred and spun. He thought he might be sick. Snippets of a dream resurfaced. A river, a dark river, and he had slit open his wrists, held them up to the captain of the little boat, but captain wasn't the right word. There was another word. It didn't matter. Bucky had been begging for something, something very important...

Everything rushed at him at once. The job, the standoff, the betrayal. Morita, the getaway car, the highway. A shotgun, a bed, a bullet. Lavender perfume. Steve.  _ Steve _ .

Bucky breathed in, and opened his eyes. Morning light streamed in through the window slats, painted pale stripes on the bed sheets. A dull ache had settled right behind his eyes; it pounded on the back of his retina. His entire body shook with the effort it took to turn himself from his back to his side. Nausea rocked through him once more. He gagged, but there was nothing to throw up except saliva and some bile.

“Dammit. I just bought those last week.”

Bucky lacked the strength to defend himself, but was saved the trouble. Peggy’s frowning face came into focus, and then swirled into the colors that made up Peggy.

“What's going on?” He said, or hoped he said. His lips felt very heavy, too heavy to move.

Peggy seemed to have understood the gist of it.

“The transfusion took a lot out of you. I couldn't wake you up for another round, but it wasn't needed.”

_ It wasn't needed _ . Bucky thought he would be sick again.

“Steve…” It was all he could say.

Pain and Death played together, and they'd let him join in since the day he could walk. He was used to these sorts of conversations, the ones that started with  _ my sincerest condolences  _ and  _ i’m so sorry _ . He was prepared. This was his bed, and he’d been lying in it for an eternity or so.

“He hasn't woken up, but I believe it's just exhaustion. It's not a coma. He talked in his sleep.”

Bucky blinked.

His eyes burned. No joy - past, present, or future - could compare to what he was feeling in this moment. Let it be known that on whatever day today was - Wednesday? or was it already Friday? - James Buchanan Barnes had felt the most joy a human could ever feel. A hot, thick tear fell down his cheek. Another followed. And another.

“Oh, hush, darling.” A gentle finger swiped across the rise of his cheekbone. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

It was alright. Steve was alive. They were going to be alright. When he woke up, they'd cross the border and sell those cursed diamonds, and buy a house on the ocean. They’d buy a boat. They’d see the water so much Steve would complain about it. They would be alright. Dreams were dreams, until just out of reach was in your palm.

“I want to see him,” he whispered, words mixing into one but he powered through. He needed to tell her. “Steve.”

“You both need to rest. He's not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

“Please,” Bucky said, and reached out for her. His shaking fingers found her blouse.

Peggy sighed.

They stumbled down the hall together. Bucky held onto her waist, and the wall. His strength was nonexistent, like someone had stolen his bones in the night and left behind a useless sack of skin. Peggy made up for it, but it still felt like they were trying and failing to win a three-legged race. In the daylight, the guest room was cute. The blue curtains matched the pastel yellow walls, and a handmade quilt on the wall housed the rest of the rainbow. The only evidence of the night before was sleeping, one bandaged arm hanging off the edge of the box spring.

Bucky collapsed out of Peggy’s arms into the chair that was standing guard at Steve’s side.

“I’ll be making breakfast, if you need me.”

She closed the door behind her.

Bucky watched Steve breathe, chest rising higher, more confident. There was a lump beneath the covers that marked where the wound was, but the color had returned to Steve’s cheeks. Bright red, like the day they’d met. He lifted Steve’s arm into his lap. The hairs were soft beneath his palm as he rubbed the tension out of his forearm. Steve mumbled, turned his head to the side, but kept on sleeping. The idea of catching another few hours draped across Bucky’s shoulders, pushed him deeper into the plush cushion of the chair, weighed down his eyelids.

_ Our lives are connected now. One and the same. Blood oaths don't mean shit compared to what he have, Rogers. You hear me? You die, I die with you. _

He fell asleep like that, with Steve’s pulse on his thigh and thinking about what it meant that the blood pounding against Steve’s veins was also his.

When he woke up again, Steve’s arm was gone, the headache had subsided, and the smell of bacon, fatty and wonderful, had smothered the lavender.

“Hey.”

Steve was watching him.

There were no words. Bucky hadn’t let himself think about an after to this fucking disaster, hadn't imagined he’d be able to have a quiet moment where Steve was breathing and Bucky was sane. He studied the bruises under Steve’s eyes, deep and purple. There was a small cut across his temple that had scabbed over. Steve was alive. Steve was here. Steve was…

“You're a cop.”

Steve nodded. He didn't look away. He faced the truth head on, and Bucky loved him for it. And wasn't that the whole of it? That Steve had betrayed him, but not really, not when it mattered. It was a lie, but it wasn't. He was still Steve, and Bucky was still Bucky, and those were still the same lips he’d kissed, the same body he’d touched. Bucky lifted himself up from the chair. He swayed on his feet for a second, but settled himself on the edge of the mattress so his thigh was pressed to Steve’s shoulder.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I don't care,” Bucky told him. It was the most honest he’d ever been with someone in twenty years. “I  _ don't _ . I'm not mad about that. You did what you had to. You did your job. Can we move past it?”

Steve nodded again.

The words flowed easy now, an open dam.

“What I am mad about is your stupid fucking death wish. What the fuck did you think you were doing, jumping in front of me? Huh? I thought I lost you. Thought I fucking lost you.”

“Buck, come on. You would have done… “ Steve said, and stopped to take a deep breath. He looked like he would pass out if he moved another muscle. “You would have done the same for me.”

Bucky shook his head, looked skyward. He couldn't disagree, but that wasn't the fucking point.

“Yeah, I would have. That's different. You don't know how fucking scared I was. I was terrified. You almost died in my arms, and I couldn't have… “ Bucky said. His voice cut out on the last word. He couldn't finish that sentence, but the look on Steve’s face told him he didn't have to.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” Steve murmured, soft. So soft.

Bucky did.

“I'm alive. You're alive. We made it.”

“Yeah.”

“Are we still going to Mexico?”

Steve’s smile was crooked, all teeth, like he wasn't being held together with cotton and tape, like they weren't wanted criminals, like this was any other morning. Like he was sure they would be alright. Bucky leaned down. Their foreheads knocked together.

“Wherever you want. I go where you go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I completely forgot I wrote this? I just finished it tonight because it was only half done, but like... Yeah, this happened. Possible epilogue on the way, but no promises. Hope you enjoyed.


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